


Removal is a Harsh Word

by sherlocktorwho



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Flashbacks, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Icarus Removals, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 09:40:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocktorwho/pseuds/sherlocktorwho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Reichenbach, John Watson hires Icarus Removals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. But Heartbreak is Even Worse

Arthur was, as he was by many things, utterly puzzled.   
  
“Douglas? Do you hear that?” he asked, stopping his post-landing hoovering to figure out where the musical beeping he heard was coming from.  
  
Douglas, too, looked around the control panel, trying to figure out which instrument was making the noise. “Even for GERTI, that’s a rather peculiar sound for a ground proximity warning, although I suppose last week’s trip to Vienna might have given her a bit of musical training.”  
  
Arthur noticed a cell phone on the floor next to the captain’s seat and picked it up. “Oh, Skip must have left his mobile behind. Do you think we should answer it?” The phone continued to ring.  
  
“Hm. I suppose we might as well,” Douglas said, answering it. “Icarus Removals. This is Douglas Richardson.”   
  
A man responded on the other end. “Oh, uh, hi. Can you pick up some things tomorrow around 5-ish and take them to another flat?”   
  
“Certainly, sir,” Douglas said as Arthur went back into the galley. “What’s the address?”  


 

  


* * *

 

 

Martin, meanwhile, was trying to track down the bratty child who had gotten off the airplane ten minutes ago. It looked rather odd for a grown man in a captain’s uniform to be carrying a pink teddy bear through an airport, but Martin was convinced that this was, in fact, the most professional option.

Douglas, as usual, had persuaded him to – “Of course _I_ could, but _ I’m_ only the first officer. People _expect_ me to do the grunt work, but it’s much more impressive if the _captain_ assumes the lower responsibilities. It gives him an air of humility.”

A kick in the shin and an angry toddler’s shout in an airport lobby – “GIVE ME BACK MY TEDDY!” – left Martin less convinced.

When he arrived back at the plane, limping, Carolyn was the first to greet him.

“Martin, stand up straight. It’s better for your posture. Oh, and you have a job tomorrow –”

He opened his mouth to protest, expecting that Carolyn was about to somehow coerce him into flying (on his day off, no less) to Beijing or Atlantis or Mars.

“ – about which I know nothing,” she continued. “Your phone rang while you were gone and a customer booked you for a delivery job tomorrow. Douglas took care of it.”

Martin hobbled angrily into the flight deck, annoyed at the sight of Douglas nibbling on an Emmental and absentmindedly googling alimony laws on his phone.

“Oh, hello, Martin,” Douglas said. “Enjoy your time running after Her Majesty?”

“No! And why did you answer my phone?”

“I was merely admiring your choice of ringtone. ‘The Thieving Magpie’ is an excellent piece, although I’m surprised _you’d_ be a fan of something that flies and steals things to make itself look good.”

“It was the _default_.”

“Of course. Anyway, I suppose my hand must have slipped.”

“In future, just... leave all talking to customers to me. You didn’t try to play a word game with them, did you? O-or list off Hitchcock films or... something else?”  

“Perish the thought!” Douglas responded. “I displayed the utmost professionalism, or at least the utmost befitting a business owned by you.”

Martin breathed a small sigh of relief. At least Douglas was insulting him and not a customer. “Alright. When and where is it?”

“It’s for tomorrow in London at five. You’ll be helping a man move some furniture to his new flat.”

“London. Oh. Well. That’s... that’s only two hours away. That’s not so bad,” Martin said, putting aside his most recent memories of London – the headlines, the press, and the family gossip surrounding his cousin’s suicide. He might even have to drive by St. Bart’s Hospital, he realized – but he wouldn’t think about that. This was a paying job, after all, and he needed the money.

“Here,” Douglas said, handing Martin a receipt from Arthur’s favorite Viennese bakery with  the details hastily scribbled on the back. Martin skimmed over the information.

_Moving furniture to another flat_

_5 PM_

_Dr. John Watson_

_221b Baker Street, London_

  
He stopped. That address couldn’t be right, he thought. No one lived in 221b. Obviously Sherlock had lived there, but he only died a week ago. Had they sold the flat already?  
  
“Something wrong?” Douglas asked, noticing that Martin had gone a bit pale.  
  
Martin blinked and looked at the receipt again. “Are you sure about this address?”  
  
“Positively,” Douglas replied, and then went back to his cheese and research.  
  
“But it can’t be right. The man who lived here died a week ago.”  
  
“Ooh, won’t that be something! Your first job under the employ of a ghost!” Douglas said. Martin ignored him.  
  
He tried to think of all the possibilities. _It was just a prank call._ No. No one would prank a removal company. _Sherlock’s alive. This is just a false name._ No. Everyone knew that Sherlock couldn’t have survived a fall from a high rooftop. Besides, Douglas didn't say anything about the caller's voice. Martin and Sherlock always sounded the same, and surely Douglas would have noticed –  
  
Then another idea popped into his mind.

_  
Douglas is setting me up. _

_  
_

__No – it couldn’t be. Even for someone who loved pranks as much as Douglas did, even he couldn’t be that cruel. Did he even know that Martin and Sherlock were related? Probably. Doubtless he had read the papers – _you’re being paranoid_ , Martin thought to himself. Maybe they had sold the flat already. Or maybe not. Oh well.

  
Money was money and he might as well do something interesting on his day off. If that involved spending an evening shoving boxes for a dead person, so be it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To download Martin's ringtone:
> 
> Click [here](http://www.xenra.com/convert/?URL=http%3A//www.youtube.com/watch%3Fv%3D3cVyHv0qczc) and then click "Start Conversion." Then, on iTunes, trim it so that it starts at about 4:28.
> 
> Thank you to [Emma](http://ricochetdays.tumblr.com) for betaing!


	2. The Other Captain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going to have to assume a few artistic liberties with the layout of 221b, because I’ve looked at [floor plans of the house,](http://folha5eca.livejournal.com/733.html)  
> clips of the show, and [that one creepy video where Moriarty breaks in](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6OH-nPEEtNc); and, TBQH, it’s really confusing. Assume that the bedrooms are on the third floor of the building.
> 
>  _Alone in the wind and the rain you left me,  
>  It's getting dark, darling, too dark to see,  
> And I'm on my knees, and your faith in shreds, it seems._ – Thistle and Weeds

After a week of numbness, John Watson was back where he had always been, and everything was the same as it had always been.

221b Baker Street still had the same old wallpaper, the same bullet-riddled wall, the same old skull, even. And now John was here to clean it all out.

Mrs. Hudson had volunteered to help, of course – the two of them had agreed that they would start bright and early at 8 o’clock that morning and they wouldn’t stop until everything was packed. With all the chemistry equipment already put away, half the job was done, but they didn’t want to linger.

Sherlock’s furniture, they decided, would go to Oxfam – but John would keep his own chair. They could sell the books at a used bookshop, and Mrs. Hudson would send the chemistry equipment to a school. 

That left the spare body parts, which neither of them wanted to touch but they could smell without even having to open the fridge. John called Molly, who said she would come back the next day to take discarded parts, along with the chemistry equipment and the dummy of Henry Fishguard, back to St. Bart’s. Mrs. Hudson couldn’t refuse her offer to stay at the flat and help, which made the rest of the day’s work go by much faster.

To John’s annoyance, Mrs. Hudson tried to make conversation as they packed. “Oh, this shirt was always one of my favorites. Do you remember when he wore it to the Christmas party?” Molly did her best to steer the conversation away from the S-word, and John would smile his sincere appreciation every time she got Mrs. Hudson to talk about the neighbors or the weather instead. 

Every so often, John offered a polite nod or “mm-hm.” For him, packing was a refreshingly straightforward task. He didn’t have to think about The Time That Sherlock Did or That Time That Sherlock Said, as long as he stayed focused on putting everything in its proper place.  _ Purple shirt goes in Clothes box. Silverware goes in Kitchen box. Cigarettes get thrown away. _ All he was doing was sorting. Categorizing. Compartmentalizing – like Sherlock would have done. But Sherlock wasn’t there. No, he was doing this  because Sherlock wasn’t there.

By 4 o’clock, the sitting room was filled with boxes. John waded his way upstairs through the sea of cardboard stacks, taking his laptop with him to go relax while waiting for Martin Crieff.

But after he was done... that would be it. After the boxes were all cleared out, John would call Oxfam and they would take the furniture. Other people would need it more than he would, anyway. His living situation was set. Sarah was happy to take him in, and Mycroft offered him a monthly subsidy to live on. He had food. He kept busy. He was limping again, though – but Mrs. Hudson had bought him a new cane. She would sell the flat. She would be the last person to see it completely empty.

At 4:45 exactly, Martin pulled up outside the flat. He had spent the entire car ride considering all possible explanations for this job.  _ No, it was definitely  not Sherlock – he was dead. _ There was no yellow tape on the door, so the police hadn’t come by to seize anything.  _Had squatters moved in?_ he wondered.  _ No, they wouldn’t have the key. Maybe it’s a prank. _

As he walked up to 221b, he saw a note stuck under the door knocker in unfamiliar handwriting.   


  


_Martin – the door’s unlocked._

_Come upstairs._

 

  
He opened the door and stepped in. He climbed the steps to the sitting room and stood in the doorway, surveying everything.  
  
_It’s just... boxes._ Well, that  _was_ what he was here for, but he was expecting a few packages at most – not a maze. And where was Dr. Watson, anyway? Was his mysterious customer hiding?  
  
 _Fantastic_ , Martin thought. _Now I get to be the detective. This must be The Mystery of the Empty House.  
_  
John, meanwhile, was sitting on top of his bed, staring at a blank New Entry page on his blog. Slowly, he typed something he had been dreading ever since he closed the first box.  
  
_ _

_**24 June. I’m selling** _ – Select All. Delete.   
  
_ Try again.  
_  
_ _

_**24 June. If you’d like to buy any** _ – No. Select All. Delete.  
  
 _ One more time.  
_  
__

** _24 June. I’m giving away_ ** –  No. Select All. Delete. 

_ Alright, that’s enough for now.   
_

 

He closed the laptop in resignation and picked up his cane, ready to go downstairs to wait for Martin.

“Dr. Watson?” Martin called out, looking around. “Icarus Removals.” Pause. No response, again.

John sat up straight, blinking in confusion.  _ That was Sherlock’s voice. No, of course it wasn’t. Lots of people have deep voices. Of course that wasn’t Sherlock; Sherlock isn’t here. I’m expecting Martin Crieff. That’s it. _

Martin stepped into the sitting room, eyeing the stacks of boxes.  _ Okay. If we both load the boxes into the van together, it’ll probably take us about an hour. I can still get back to Fitton by 8:30.   
_  
He tried again. “Dr. Watson, I’m here to pick up your furniture.” 

John’s heart started to beat faster. His fingers gripped the handle of his cane as he felt himself sway a little. That was definitely Sherlock’s voice and Sherlock’s cadence.  _ Doesn’t mean it’s him. I’m just tired. I’m hearing what I want to hear. _

Martin looked around again. Still no response.  _Right. Someone thought they’d have a bit of fun with the captain on his day off. This is the school clubs and the airfield bar all over again. And there’s probably a hidden camera somewhere, too, isn’t there?_ He pulled out his phone, gripping it in angry embarrassment as he mentally prepared to chide Douglas for setting this up. 

Of course Douglas would take it as congratulations, though, wouldn’t he? Martin could already hear his snide drawl: “Oh, did it take you a full two hours to figure it out? That’s rather astounding. I figured it would only take you  _one_.”

Martin was seething. “I know you’re here!” he called out, not even sure who the “you” might be. “You can stop hiding now!” He climbed up the steps.

John cracked the door open and glanced down the stairs at Martin, who was on the landing, dialing a number on his phone.

John’s eyes grew big with panic and he tripped backward, catching himself on the bed as he felt his bad leg go limp. He slid onto the floor as he clutched his chest, heaving labored breaths. _ Oh my God it was him – I know what I saw. Oh God. It was him. That was definitely real. _

Martin’s call went straight to voicemail. Of course it did. “Douglas,” he hissed, “you know as well as I do that you put me up to this! Well, won’t Carolyn be happy to find out  _just_ what her favorite pilot gets up to when he’s not stealing whiskey, o-or... smuggling flowers!”

John could hear Sherlock saying something else now, but he couldn’t make it out. He felt nauseous now anyway, immobile. It wasn’t just the voice that had given Sherlock away. That lanky body was the same, even that haircut was the same – but that bastard had dyed it red. It  _was_ all a set-up – this was just a disguise. But he hadn’t even bothered to put in any effort. Maybe he was deliberately making it too easy for John to deduce. Maybe he didn’t think John could figure it out on his own.

But he  _was_ here.

John’s panic in the Baskerville lab meant nothing now. He was seeing a dead man come to life –  _that_ was his threshold, and calling Sherlock to save him obviously wouldn’t do him any good.

Wait. No. He  was still back in the laboratory, still back in Baskerville. Sherlock had just put too much “sugar” in his coffee again. Maybe that was the miracle. He thought a silent prayer –  _please, Sherlock, let this be another hallucination._ He knew it had to have been. This  was just like Baskerville – the boxes in the maze downstairs were completely empty. There were no animals in the cages at Baskerville, and there were no nightmares here in these walls. All the sounds he heard were just recordings, and Sherlock was sitting with a hidden camera somewhere, trying to make sure he was safe.

 _Yeah_ , _there_ has _to be a hidden camera_ , Martin thought – _this is all some kind of prank. Someone’s watching me. This is just a game, isn’t it. An experiment, maybe. Douglas thinks he can outsmart me but I know exactly what he’s up to. This is just payback for all the Helena jokes._ If Douglas _was_ actually the one behind this, Martin resolved, this would be the final straw – he would leave MJN and reapply at an airline where he could actually be treated with respect like the captain that he was, not like some monkey in a lab.

He tried again. “I’m here, Dr. Watson.”

John took a few deep breaths to steady himself.  _Okay, that was  Sherlock. He’s not dead. He disguised himself and he came back to tell me he’s okay. John’s heart was pounding. Surely Sherlock was going to lecture him somehow – _

_Wait a second,_ he thought.  _ This wasn’t my fault. If Sherlock is actually coming back for me, I’m not going to take the mickey for it. He left  me. He used me as an experiment. He left me alone in the flat with no one to talk to and no one to trust – no one trusts me anymore and I can’t trust anyone else. Maybe they’re all liars. Just like Sherlock was.  
_  
John felt his leg regaining strength as he pulled himself to his feet and called out shakily, “Come upstairs. I’m in the bedroom,” as he pushed the door nearly closed.

 _The bedroom?_ Martin wondered. _Oh, God. So  that’s __what the call was about. This was all just a huge misunderstanding. Wait, why would he call_ me _? Did a client recommend me or something?_ Hang on. _If Douglas had set this up – did he think he was doing me a favor?_  
  
Blushing, Martin slowly made his way up the steps. “Er – Dr. Watson, I’m really sorry, but I thought I was just here to pick up your boxes.” He stepped inside the bedroom as he pushed the door open. “I’m not actually –”

John stepped out from behind the door and interrupted Martin’s apology with a solid punch to the face, strong and steady from years of military experience. Martin had ducked slightly at the last second, which redirected the punch to his cheek. The force caught him off guard and the impact spun him around completely. He fell quickly, dropping forwards onto the floor as blood dripped out of his nose and a bruise began to purple on his cheek. He flipped over, trying to crab-crawl backward to get away from John – but John pressed his cane into his chest and he couldn’t get away, partially out of physical immobility and partially out of a paralytic fear.

_Well, okay_ ,  Martin thought, _it_ wasn’t _ that kind of call.  
_  
Martin squealed a bit as he tried to crawl backward, expecting John to inflict more damage. “Don’t! Please! I’m just here to help you move!”

“How – fucking –  _dare_  –  you!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Sir – sir, I don’t – please just tell me what’s going on!” Martin was very quietly beginning to cry. He wondered if Dr. Watson had given Kieran a few lessons.

“‘ _Icarus Removals?_ ’” John spat. “Are you just trying to rub it in? Do you remember that _you made me watch you fall_? Icarus was all part of the act, wasn’t it? And _ Martin Crieff_? What else have you got set up? Who else is in on it?”

A whimper escaped Martin as he held his hands up to his face. “No! I-I don’t have  _anything_ set up! I came here for a job! I’m sorry! I  _really_ don’t know what’s going on!”

John pressed his cane harder as his anger turned to a shout. “And I’m supposed to keep quiet about this, am I? Do you expect me to play along with your stupid facade for the rest of my life? Did you even  _think_ about how  _I_ would have to deal with this? You _ left me here,  alone_, and now I look like the world’s biggest idiot for believing you!”

Martin was now more or less curled into the fetal position. “Please, Dr. Watson!” 

“Shut up!” John yelled, pointing a finger down at Martin. “Have you even _seen_ the newspapers lately? Your ‘confirmed bachelor blogger’ has to explain to all the press how you lied to everyone and made us all look like idiots!”

“That wasn’t me! You have the wrong person!” Martin was sobbing now.

John glared down at the curled-up body on the floor, taking in all the bruises and wondering where to strike next,  _if_ he should strike next, if he had really gotten his point across to Sherlock at all, or if Sherlock was just going to absorb John’s anger without defending himself and then give him a lecture on technique. He gave the rest of Sherlock’s disguise a once-over, from his worn-down shoes to the stretched-out pants that barely fit his lanky legs –

His legs.

_ Oh no. Oh God._

_This man is a foot shorter than Sherlock. _

John clutched his forehead as he stumbled backwards onto the bed. “You’re not him,” he said vacantly, realizing what he had just done. “You’re  _really_ not him, are you.”

Martin sniffled. “No. No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh, God, I’ve just hit some random person. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Martin sat up, wiping away the blood and covering his black eye. “Who did you think I was?”

“Just... someone,” John said, still holding his forehead and his cane as he sat down on the bed. “No, but he died – he’s dead. He’s  _been_ dead for a week. I thought you were him, but... you’re not. He shared the flat with me.”

It was clear to Martin now. This wasn’t a setup after all, but Dr. Watson certainly thought it was. Martin grabbed the corner of the bed and pulled himself to his feet.

“Was his name Sherlock?” he asked.

John turned to him. “Yes. Sherlock Holmes. How did you know?”

“We were cousins. When I got this job, I thought it was someone pulling a prank on me, since he’s d– since he’s... not here,” Martin said. John looked him up and down again. His resemblance to Sherlock was uncanny, but Martin’s red hair was natural – as was his lack of height.

“But I  _am_ actually Martin Crieff.  _Captain_ Martin Crieff,” he said. John’s face brightened and he stood up.

“Captain John Watson. Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers,” he replied, giving Martin a military salute, which Martin mirrored, albeit hesitantly. 

“Oh, I... I’m not in the Army. I’m an airline captain.”

“Ah.” John looked at Martin’s bloodied nose. “Let’s go downstairs. I’m a doctor; I’ll take care of that bruise.”

 

  


* * *

 

 

  
With a less swollen bruise, thanks to Mrs. Hudson’s first aid kit and John’s medical experience, Martin loaded boxes into his van until sunset. The afternoon’s sea of cardboard now looked like a drained reservoir; only a few chairs and tables remained. John would do his best to carry a box at a time to the top of the stairs, and Martin would lift them all into the back of the van.  
  
Martin had already taken a short break to call Douglas back and leave another message on his answering machine: “Douglas, I’m... sorry. I’m really, really sorry about what I said earlier, and it was stupid and judgmental, and I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”  
  
John’s spirits brightened as he kept up a running commentary about the boxes. He explained that he had disinfected everything in the Kitchen box had to be disinfected because of all the experiments that Sherlock had done – eyes in the microwave, thumbs in the fridge. Clothes in the box marked Disguises were spilling over – “Was Sherlock religious? He’s got a vicar’s suit here,” Martin had asked. John explained the story of the scandal involving Irene Adler. Martin wasn’t sure what to make of the box marked “Recreation” – it had come open, and inside, John could see a Cluedo board. For some reason, someone had stabbed a knife through the middle of it. Martin pulled it out and held it up to John with a quizzical expression.  
  
John laughed. “Don’t you remember? That was from the time that – ”  
  
Martin looked at him. John looked back at him and saw his hair – his _red_ hair.  
  
John sighed. “Ah. No, I guess you wouldn’t. Well, this is the last one,” he said, pointing to the box marked Miscellaneous. He slowly followed Martin and the box down the stairs.  
  
“Oh, er, I think you forgot to close it,” Martin said, staring at the long navy scarf that appeared to be bunched over something hard inside the box.  
  
“No, careful – there’s a skull in there.”  
  
“A  _human_ skull?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
As Martin fainted, John caught the box before it hit the ground.

 

  


* * *

 

 

  
When John had revived Martin, he invited him to dinner at Angelo’s, at his insistence – they didn’t need to pay.

When they walked in, John noticed all the staff giving Martin a double take. Martin did, too – 20 pairs of eyes were staring at him. He wondered if they were assuming something about him being there with John.  _Oh. So ‘we shared the flat’ actually meant –_

“I’m not his date!” Martin said as Angelo brought over two menus, loud enough so the nearby patrons could hear but not loud enough to embarrass John in front of the entire restaurant. John, however, chuckled.

Angelo gave Martin a once-over.

“No,” Angelo said. “No, I know.”

They talked over breadsticks and pizza about what Martin had missed of Sherlock’s life – Remedial Sherlock 101, as John called it. Apparently, there was much more to his cousin than a cocaine addiction and a passion for solving murders.

“So you thought this was just a prank or something?” John asked. “Did Sherlock never tell you that we lived together?” 

“No. He never told us about his personal life. We just knew that he was a detective with a few personal problems, and that he was ‘married to his work.’ We didn’t know he had a, er – ” Martin paused, not sure how to fill in the blank.

John looked him straight in the eye. “ _Flatmate_.”

“...a flatmate. I don’t suppose he ever told you much about his family much, either.”

John shook his head. “No. He only talked to Mycroft when he needed a favor, so I assumed that he wasn’t too keen on the rest of you.”

Martin chuckled softly. “Yeah, that’s just as well. Sherlock always thought I was an idiot. He never really held back with telling me, either. Even when I was little, actually – our parents had pictures of us playing together, when he would pretend to be a pirate and I would pretend to be an aeroplane. You couldn’t tell us apart except for the hair. But he had read a lot of books about planes, and he would tell me I was doing something wrong.  _Wrong_ , that was his favorite word. Always  _wrong_. ”

John nodded. He never liked when Sherlock called him an idiot (or stupid, or thick, or small-brained, or anything else); but now that all his memories of Sherlock were starting to unravel like an old scarf, any memory of Sherlock was better than none.

“And he always said he would teach me how to fly – ”

Martin saw John bite his lip.

“er – because he had read about it in books.”

John sighed. The other restaurant patrons, some of whom occasionally gave Martin the side-eye, were talking about all manner of things, so he lowered his voice, not wanting to disturb them. “So he is really dead, then?”

“As far as I know. I’m sorry. For you, I mean. For your loss.”

“I’m surprised you aren’t more heartbroken.”

“I can’t say I knew him well enough for that.” Martin sighed. “When my dad died, he was the only one in the family who didn’t come to the funeral. It really upset my brother and sister – he told us that it was stupid to be overly sentimental. So of course none of us wanted to come to  _his_ funeral. Did he even...  _have_ a funeral?”

“Not really. It was just me and Mrs. Hudson saying goodbye.” He paused. “You haven’t been out there, have you?”

“I wouldn’t even know where ‘there’ is.”

John straightened up, eager for the opportunity. “Do you want to go out there when we’re done?”

“Oh, er...” Martin glanced at his watch. It was already half past nine. “I think it’s a bit late for that.”

John scooted out of the booth and put his jacket back on to leave. “You can stay in Sherlock’s bedroom tonight. We’ll go tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you. I’d really appreciate it.”

 

  


* * *

 

 

  
The next morning, the two of them walked together on the stone path through the cemetery. Martin walked slowly, enough that John could go in front of him without either of them feeling too rushed or too left behind.   
  
When they reached the headstone, John turned to Martin.  
  
“Well... this is him. Do you want a few minutes out here? Just... to say goodbye?”  
  
Martin stared at the black slab. “That’d be nice, thank you.”  
  
“Alright.” John gave Sherlock’s grave a military nod. “I’ll meet you back at the car, then.”

 

  


* * *

 

 

  
Back in Fitton, the cabin crew on GERTI were stressed enough that a rich client had booked a flight to Paris only two hours ago, but Douglas was even more agitated.  
  
Carolyn popped her head into the flight deck. “Douglas, this plane appears to be stationary, yet Mr. Talbot has requested that it be in motion until we arrive in Paris.” She never liked clients who called at the last minute, but Carolyn couldn’t say no to this one’s insistence on paying extra to get to Orly Airport  _as soon as possible_.  
  
“I’m sorry, Carolyn, but I’m looking for something. Arthur? Have you seen my iPhone?”  
  
“No, sorry! Maybe someone left it in your pigeonhole.”  
  
Carolyn called back, “Well, as I'm sure you're well aware, your phone is not a lemon, so I’m sure that it has not travelled anywhere, nor is finding it your most urgent priority. Now get this plane into the air before I can count to twenty or you’re not getting paid!” she snapped.  
  
“My, what a difference  _that_ would make.”  
  
She shot him a look as she passed by the client, an elderly accountant named Edmund Talbot, who, in the boredom of the delayed takeoff, had fallen asleep. 

 

  


* * *

 

 

  
Martin wasn’t sure if he should say anything. Sherlock couldn’t hear him, but here he was in front of the cousin they had abandoned, the first and last ambassador for the entire Crieff family. He wanted his side to have a better last message to Sherlock than a lecture about his cocaine habits.   
  
“Well, Sherlock, er... this is a bit difficult. I finally became an airline captain. I’m sure you knew that. You probably could have figured it out, anyway. Erm... I met John. Your flatmate. He’s very nice. Though I suppose he didn’t seem that way when I first met him.”   
  
Martin looked around. The cemetery was empty – too early for any visitors (or, Martin thought, maybe too late for any goodbyes.)   
  
“I’m really sorry that my family always underestimated you. You remember what my mum said about your... problem. I guess it’s a bit late for her to apologize, so I’d like to say... sorry. On her behalf, and on all of ours. I-I know that we didn’t always agree – I mean, I know it was kind of hard sometimes. But that’s okay. I’m sure you were very happy with John. He said you were a great man.”   
  
His phone chirped. He ignored it and leant in, holding onto the top of the headstone.   
  
“I’ll try to help him. I hope he’ll be okay without you.”   
  
He bit his lip and wiped away a tear. As he got up and turned to walk away, he pulled out his phone.   
  


**_NEW MESSAGES: Douglas Richardson_ **

**_  
_**

**_Sorry about the delay – last-minute client. Had to fly to Paris._ **

**_  
_**

**_Anyway, apology accepted._ **

**  
**

**Thank you** , Martin typed. I appreciate it **.**

**  
**

** _I take it the job went badly, then?_ **

**  
**

**It went pretty well, actually. Of course, when I thought that it might be a ghost, er, it turns out... **

**  
**

**_You were_ **

**_  
_**

**_Wrong._ **

**  
**

**_Whoops. My hand must have slipped. Anyway, yes, I know._ **

**  
**

**Yes. **

**  
**

**_Well, glad that’s sorted out._ **

**  
**

**What about your trip? How did that go? **

**_  
_**

** _Boring. Some rich sod booked us at the last minute._ **

 

**_It’s a shame you don’t appreciate the value of pickpocketing from clients!_ **

**_  
_**

**_He slept the entire time. You could have gotten something good off him._ **

**  
**

**As I’ve told you before, I refuse to steal anything from anyone, let alone a passenger. It’d be beneath my dignity. **

**  
**

**_Yes. I know._ **

**_  
_**

**_That’s because you, Captain, are on the side of the angels._ **

**  
**

**Douglas, what are you talking about? I’m not an angel! **

**  
**

**_ True. _ **

**  
**

**_After all, I was wrong. You learned how to fly better than I did._ **

**_  
_**

**_But I think Icarus and I both taught you how to fall._ **

**  
**

**What? **

**  
**

**_I’ll be in Paris for a while._ **

**_  
_**

**_Don’t tell the other captain._ **

**  
**

**_–SH_**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Work is the best antidote to sorrow, my dear Watson.” - The Adventure of the Empty House
> 
> By the way, as I recently spent a few days with my family unpacking my grandpa’s house in a similar fashion, I can assure you that one and a half days is certainly an adequate amount of time for three people (even one with a limp and one with a bad hip) to unpack a flat, provided there aren’t any small children around to “help.”
> 
> I have a prequel for this in progress!
> 
> Feel free to leave me a comment here or [on my Tumblr!](http://reichenbachtorwho.tumblr.com/ask)


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